


A Dog Eat Dog Sly Smile

by Loracine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Human AU, Kinks, M/M, Mobster Castiel, Mobster Dean, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:59:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6415444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loracine/pseuds/Loracine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel and Dean are two rival mob bosses in New York City. Castiel clawed his bloody way to the top of the Krushnic Bratva and Dean's got an iron grip on The Westies, an Irish gang from Hell's Kitchen. They meet in the most unlikely of places and even after their identities are revealed they just can't seem to keep their hands off each other. Faced with an adversary that threatens them both, will they be able to climb out of the sack long enough to take care of business?</p><p>aka That mobster au that's just as much porn as plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to sprinkle some plot in amongst the porn. *squints* It should still be there. Um. Yeah. One four hour writing session left me with 8k of pure porn and I didn't have the heart to trash any of it. That's how I ended up with over 21k words for a pinch hit. *embarrassed* Can you blame me? The title was taken from the lyrics of Nightrain by Guns N' Roses. Also, I had some fun with the Russian language even though I don't speak it. All translations were obtained via Google Translate or a website full of slang terms and are available at the bottom of each page. If I got anything wrong, I apologise.
> 
> Shout out to emmatheslayer. It was her art ([here](http://emmatheslayer.livejournal.com/348955.html)) that inspired this fic. Without her work it would not exist.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I brought some new toys for us to play with, per'ya," his dominant growled into his ear. He caressed the massive wings tattooed from the nape of Castiel's neck to trail the tips of the inked feathers over the tops of his buttocks.

1 year ago

"Vam nuzhno vypustit' par, boss," his second remarked.

Castiel holstered his weapon and smoothed his jacket back into place. "I do not understand this steam," he replied. "The water in my body is well within the temperature limits required to remain in liquid state at the current barometric pressure." He spotted movement about ten feet away and narrowed his blue eyes. A trembling hand was reaching for a .45 just out of grasp. "Uri, did I not instruct you to leave no survivors," he asked conversationally.

His second looked up at him sharply and then he was scanning the carnage they had made of the floor. It looked like a finger painting and red had been the only color available.

"Bald with a blue suit," he said tiredly.

"Da," he said and nodded. A moment later there were three more bullets in the man and an even larger pool of blood spreading around the body. The hand went limp. "Good catch." His grin was wide on his dark face.

"I would have preferred a successful kill the first time," Castiel intoned. His shoes kicked up plumes of dust as he stepped over the numerous fallen corpses in his path. They reminded him of bloody logs, much like the rotting husks of fallen trees he played among at his father's forest cabin as a boy. He rolled the blue suit over, studying the face. "Not him," he said and turned on his heel.

Uri followed his swift steps, fishing a set of keys out of his pocket. He popped the back door of the minivan open as soon as he was in range and his boss had a jug of kerosene in each hand before he could even think to say he would carry them all inside. They worked in silence, removing the skin from each fingertip and fishing out the identification for every man. All of that would be burned later, elsewhere. The bulk of the remains were left in place, doused in accelerant thoroughly until all twelve had been processed. It wasn't perfect, but this should give them a few days before the first break in the case. Plenty of time to arrange contingencies.

Uri was driving Castiel to his home on Long Island, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel as the traffic inched along ahead of them. "Seriously, boss, I mean it. You seem tense. I think you'd feel a lot better if you could relax for a bit somewheres," he insisted.

Castiel pointed, "Turn in here."

The man looked at the tiny deli, shrugged, and parked his car out front. "Feeling like a gyro," he asked. The door jingled when they entered.

The man behind the counter greeted them, "What can I do for you?"

Castiel spoke first, "I have been told you make an excellent Reuben."

He beamed. "Best in New York," he stated proudly, like it wasn't the same phrase every other proprietor parroted when asked about their food. His hands were deft as he built the sandwich, piling the contents high. The mouthwatering smell of toasted bread filled the small room when he completed the final steps. When it was wrapped in butcher's paper the man pushed it towards them. "Anything I can get for your friend?" His smile looked brittle.

Castiel looked to Uri, but didn't say that he shouldn't. He looked rather unimpressed with the entire exchange and not even a bit like he was looking forward to lunch. He usually looked rather unimpressed, perpetually composed. His poker face was legendary and a while back there had been a sort of office betting pool on whether or not the boss was even human. Uri cleared his throat, "Gimme one a those too, and a piece o' that strawberry cheesecake." The boss narrowed his eyes at him and Uri just shrugged. What, killing twelve people was exhausting? He needed to refill the tanks.

A second sandwich was swiftly assembled, wrapped up, and set on the counter. Castiel pulled out his moneyclip and attempted to pay for the food. His money was rebuffed. "Your money is no good here. On the house," the man nervously announced. His hands shook as he packed the food into two separate paper bags.

"I assure you that my money is no different in composition or denomination to what resides already in your cash register," Castiel stated.

"Uh, boss, I think he's saying that you don't need to pay," Uri clarified.

Castiel looked confused. "Of course I don't need to pay for anything, Uri. I also understand that it is customary to offer payment for services rendered," he replied.

"Gentleman, please. It is my pleasure," he repeated, looking like he was eager to get them out of his deli.

Castiel set the proper sum on the counter, "I appreciate the gesture, but I am not in need of charity." He cocked his head and fixed the man with one of his bottomless stares. The guy was probably shitting his pants right about now. "I am in your establishment to inquire as to the reason you have neglected to pay your debtors the prior two months," he said.

The man visibly swallowed, sweat popping out on his brow. "Uh, you'd have to ask my father. He owns the place," he replied.

Uri hung back, his shooting hand on his semi-automatic and his eyes darting between the hallway leading into the stockroom and the sidewalk outside. He was quick to pick up on the changing atmosphere of the conversation, one of the many reasons he currently served in his elevated position despite the circumstances of his birth.

"Your name is Thomas Kramer, son of Beryl Kramer," he stated. It wasn't a question. Stopping here had not been done on idle impulse. Everything Castiel did was deliberate, even when it didn't look like it. He stepped toward the counter and put his hands on the worn formica.

"I, uh. I'm Tommy. Geez. Yarik said you'd be upset if I missed another payment. I didn't mean to. I swear," he babbled.

Castiel held up a hand to silence him. "Your intention is not my concern," he said and for a half second the man looked relieved. "You entered into a mutually beneficial agreement with my organization. I have fulfilled my obligations, but you have chosen to disregard yours," he sounded like he was chiding a difficult child. "I do not enjoy wasting my time and resources on people lacking the basic sense of responsibility sufficient to complete the simple task of paying their debts in a timely manner." Oh boy, he was using those big words again. Uri's hand wrapped around the grip of his gun, preparing to draw if needed. Castiel lifted the floating end of the counter and walked through, easing it down gently behind him. "Can I trust you will give Yarik no further trouble?"

The man backed up. "Yes, sir, uh, Mr. Novak. It's been a slow coupla months," he began and it looked like he was going to start groveling, maybe even kiss the toe of Castiel's oxfords if he thought it would help.

He tested the weight of the aluminum baseball bat mounted by the cash register. "I do not believe you," he stated. The man's eyes went wide as he swung, taking out his left knee with a sickening crack.

The man howled. Judging by experience, Uri was pretty sure the man would never be able to use that joint properly again. The pain had to be excruciating. He was a sobbing mess when Castiel dropped the bat and walked outside. Uri yanked the phone jack out of the wall and smashed the man's cell phone before he followed.

"You know, you really should look into getting a hobby. How about golf," Uri suggested as they drove away.

Castiel did not look interested in the idea, ignoring his second entirely as he had done every other time in the past six months the man had made the suggestion. He did smile, though, when he tasted the Reuben, wide and open. The sandwich was indeed one of the best he had tasted. "This makes me very happy," he announced around a mouthful of food. Uri looked a little disturbed.

~

Two weeks later

Castiel had thought he was made to give orders, to command. He wore the mantle of a general well and his subordinates followed his lead with equal parts loyalty and fear. He was a hands-on Pakhan and he had earned his place with the lives of his rivals. There was enough blood on his hands to fill every fountain in Central Park and it rarely bothered him. Business was business and he would not regret the choices he made when dealing with hardened, equally violent criminals. He knew his men had started calling him The American Butcher. It sounded terrifying, so he didn't discourage it. He also didn't sanction its use. As a title it was a rather large pretentious mouthful to use, though, and shortening it to The American was out of the question and The Butcher was so common he could liken it to the Bratva version of John Smith. He was pleased that even his own men were afraid of him. If they were afraid they were less likely to step out of line and cross him. He hated training up new talent unnecessarily.

He was human after all, though, not a machine and he was susceptible to the constant stress of his career. Even he needed to relax every once in a while. Problem was, his particular brand of recreation was not exactly sanctioned by his organization. Vor or not, there was a very good chance if he was found out that he would not live long, or die easily. It took him months to track down a suitable forum, where he could indulge without worrying about proper assertive conduct. That was what had drawn him here, to Appetite, an exclusive club with an even more selective membership and a spotless reputation for discretion. The substantial amount of money involved in obtaining access had been of no concern and the background check had been easily manipulated. Laughably.

Castiel had been coming here for several weeks, his face and body covered. Up until now he could claim curiosity or that he was looking into beginning a similar venture of his own if he was discovered. The sheer amount of money that rolled in through those doors was staggering. Not many legal operations of such a small scale could claim similar profit margins and if he got his own version up and running, such a thing could be very useful. Once he took that final step, once he began participating in the activities around him, though, he was committed to the path.

Tonight he had arranged an appointment with a dominant, a long standing member he had been told was looking for an untrained sub to break in. He was staring at an empty room, the monogrammed envelope he found taped to the door clutched in his fist. Castiel was jumping into the deep end of the pool on this one and he didn't even know if he could swim. His hand did not shake as he read it.

_Tonight's purpose is to decide if this arrangement is satisfactory for both of us. Remove your shoes and stand in the center of the room with your eyes covered. Use the blindfold by the door if necessary. I expect you to follow my every command without question. If this is not acceptable, leave the door open when you depart and I will know. Be sure you want to be here. Do not waste my time._

_I look forward to our meeting._

He had been standing in the room for some time, or perhaps very little time considering he couldn't watch the clock with the blindfold on, when he heard the door open. He shifted, unsure what to do. He wasn't used to being the one in the room at a disadvantage. The door closed. His muscles twitched. He really wanted a weapon right about now.

The easy baritone of a man's voice came from just off his left shoulder, "Don't be nervous. Call me sir." Fingertips brushed down his upper arm, his only warning the aura of body heat rolling off the other's body. "For the next hour you will show me how well you can follow instructions."

Castiel turned his head toward the noise. He snorted. Like that was ever going to happen. "Earn it," he challenged. He might be a natural bottom, but he was no simpering sissy.

The man sounded amused, "Don't worry, no one's getting naked. No funny business. No sex. Promise. Not tonight."

Castiel snorted. Then what the hell was he here for?

The dominant circled close, sleeves brushing him as he passed. "Speak if you choose. Leave if you like. But, if you stay in this room you belong to me." He stopped, the front of his body a long line of heat at Castiel's back. "I have two rules. You do nothing without my say-so and you keep the blindfold on. Are we clear?"

Castiel clenched his jaw. He needed this. He could do this. Just this once. "Yes, sir," he replied, hating the feel of the words in his mouth and craving the feel of them leaving his throat all the same.

~

10 months ago

Castiel was standing naked in the center of the room, skin pebbling in the chill. He was not restrained in any way, had yet to submit to that particular brand of helplessness, humiliation. Since that first night he had yet to see any part of his dominant's physical form, though his hands had mapped the muscles of his body on numerous occasions; the soft spikes in his short hair, the tender skin at the bend of his neck, the strong cut of his jaw, the gentle curve of his cock. He turned his head, sightless eyes seeking the man that had torn him down, but by bit, to his most base self since they had met, made him want everything he should despise. It had been ridiculously easy to tame him. All he had needed was the right master to bring him to heel. A faithful dog panting after every scrap of approval his dominant threw his way. The now familiar scuff of worn leather boots came up behind him, pulling things inside of him tight with heat.

"I brought some new toys for us to play with, per'ya," his dominant growled into his ear. He caressed the massive wings tattooed from the nape of Castiel's neck to trail the tips of the inked feathers over the tops of his buttocks.

He fought to suppress the instinctual reaction his father's tongue on a foreigner's lips would have pulled from him, the exotic flavor the man's accent lent the word. He fought not to drop to his knees and suck the cum out his cock head, the desire coursing through him just from the rumble of that whiskey rough voice. He was half gone, falling.

"Tell me, have you heard of sounding," he asked.

It was terrifying how quickly he had learned to crave him. Not simply the act of what they did each week in this private room, but the very commanding presence of the man that had become his dominant, his only dominant. The pull to obey him was magnetic and Castiel felt powerless to resist. He needed to leave now, before he lost himself entirely. Already he would let this man do anything, even fuck his previously untouched asshole, as long as those hands could be on his body while he did it, that voice whispering filth in his ear. "It is the practice of stretching the urethra by inserting progressively bigger objects," Castiel replied.

His dominant chuckled, tracing the intricate lines of the rose tattoo on his ribs. "Your cock would look so beautiful stretched wide while I fucked it with one of my sounds. Bet you'd come so pretty," he crooned.

"Der`mo," Castiel hissed as his body responded.

"I know you're interested when you break out the Russian, per'ya," he chuckled. He caressed lightly over his abs making the muscles jump. "I see every inch of you. Can't hide from me." He brushed the leaking tip of his own erection against Castiel's thigh, wetting the skin there with his pre-cum.

Castiel whimpered.

~

9 months ago

Another day, another bunch of dead bodies. Castiel was beginning to think he'd been hired as a New York City homicide detective and no one had thought to tell him. "What did they get," he asked.

Mikhail shrugged, "Neploho."

"Details," he urged and kicked at a singed desk drawer.

"A couple thousand. five I think. And a few bricks," he replied. The place served as a local distribution center, one of about fifteen that the Krushnic Bratva operated in the area. The missing cash would have been a much higher number than five thousand if today had been a Saturday. Someone hadn't done their homework. Mikhail had delivered Castiel's weekly eighty percent two days ago, halfway across the island, as per usual. That alone was why the man's cranium had not been cracked open and his brains scattered on the wall.

Castiel grabbed the man by his collar and forced his nose down to the cracked safe. "I want to know exactly what and how much is missing," he instructed and released him with a final push. He took a deep breath and composed himself. It had been a very long time since he had last lost his temper, much less shown more emotion than simple annoyance.

Uri opened his mouth, closed it, then he shrugged and mumbled, "Idiot."

Mikhail cringed, waiting for the final blow. "I can do it, boss. Give me two hours and I can tell you everything they took, down to the fucking paperclips if you want," he hastily offered. He sounded desperate and Castiel wanted to put him out of his misery just for that. Whatever inspired him to staff his upper ranks with American born criminals he was regretting it. This one was soft. They were all soft. Three years in a Federal penitentiary and the sniveling coward couldn't even look his Pakhan in the eye.

"You have one half hour. That should be sufficient," he replied. He surveyed the damage to the room, more pissed off at the insult than his material losses. "Luciano," he remarked, the contempt evident in his tone.

Uri looked to his boss for further instructions and the blankness of his face told him everything he needed to know. Those blue eyes were glittering chips of ice. Mikhail was going to need a little retraining and Castiel didn't trust his own ability to leave the man breathing if yet another unfortunate inconvenience occurred near the man. Not all the blame fell on Mikhail and they both knew it. It hadn't taken the man's frantic explanations to suggest that. Uri nodded and opened his phone, calling Leo's crew to help with the mess. The man would be their problem now. His life theirs to do with as they pleased until he redeemed his part in this debacle.

Castiel slipped down the stairs while Uri was occupied, leaving the building in his exhaust. If a couple gangbangers happened to bite it while his gold Lincoln passed by, well, no one said anything. It was the logical response to an attempted carjacking and he'd needed to 'let off some steam' as Uri had put it. He might have also pointed out that beating them to death with a tire iron had been a bit excessive, but what was a few more deaths in a neighborhood littered with little white crosses and prayer cards.

That evening, Castiel was moaning steadily, wailing when Dean's fingers hit just the right spot. The diabolical mudak did it just often enough to keep him writhing. Not that he could get hard inside the cock cage the dominant had slipped him into before everything else started. He could feel the attached metal sound inside of him, moving as he shifted and just short enough that it had no hope of properly stimulating him from the inside either. After his introduction to sounding Castiel had become quite taken with it. He really wanted that sound deeper, or maybe a bit more attention… anywhere. Morewantplease. It wouldn't do him any good, but he'd gut the bastard if he didn't get some solid prostate action right the fuck now. He'd take the bite of the steel keeping him soft over this maddening want burning him up. He'd asked for pain tonight. He fucking wanted it and it wasn't happening.

"Mmm," the dominant mused, stabbing his fingers in and out of him to test the give. "You feel ready, per'ya." He withdrew his fingers, leaving Castiel's hips gyrating on the padded chair, legs hoisted high by the stirrups.

He was open, spread and stretched wide, and so so empty. "Ublyudok," he spat.

His dominant chuckled, "And here I was going to make you come tonight, so hard you would have thought your brains were shooting out your dick."

The head of his cock brushed against the swollen rim and Castiel held very still, breath catching. "Trahni menya," he demanded.

"I look up one ruszki word and you assume I know what the hell you just said," the man grumbled. He rubbed a few more passes along Castiel's sensitive skin, cock head glancing off his opening and down between his cheeks. "I think I know what you meant," he added. Then, without warning, his cock slid home, pushing inside with very little resistance. His pace was slow and steady until his balls were resting against his ass.

Relief washed over Castiel. He never thought it would feel this good. "Please," he begged. "Move."

"Mmm, let me hear it again. Properly this time," he urged and repeated that slow glide first out, the mushroom flare catching, and then tunneling back inside his snug heat. "I could fuck you for hours. Keep you on edge. Just this side of cumming, until it hurts so good. You feel so tight for me," he praised.

Castiel shook his head side to side, tears soaking the blindfold. He hadn't genuinely cum since their last session. His release didn't feel the same anymore, not remotely satisfying without the command to cum snarled from above him in his dominant's rough baritone. He could barely wring one out by himself and Petrov's girls had never really done it for him. This, though. This pushed all his buttons. And he needed the other man to move. "Please, sir. I want to cum. Please. Let me cum, sir. Please," he keened. He didn't care what he sounded like, how wrecked he must look.

The man's strong calloused hands gripped his thighs, bringing his calves to rest on his shoulders. The position opened him up, spread him even wider. "Keep begging me so prettily, per'ya, and I'll make sure you cum twice tonight while I fuck you deep and hard. Then I'll keep you cumming till you're begging me to stop." His dominant folded his knees to his chest and did just that. "There are many types of pain."

~

5 months ago

A Vor, his second, and two brodyagi entered a bar. It sounded like the beginning of a very bad joke. Uri had been laughing about it all the way from the car to the front door. He was alone in his mirth. Castiel didn't see what could be so amusing and the other two were keeping quiet, too nervous around the boss to crack it up.

"C'mon, boys," Uri urged. "Smile. Life is good." He was whistling when the bartender pointed them to the basement, giddy as they drew their weapons. He even entered first, barrel pointed.

This wasn't the wild west. They didn't go in guns blazing. It was a rather subdued affair compared to what Uri had been so audibly hoping for. The five men gathered around the poker table in the smoky room froze. Five pairs of bloodshot eyes turned towards them and three of those mouths cursed under their breath as their two Italian guards went down without much of a fight. Judging by the pile of chips there was a lot of money at stake, enough money to keep five grown men, well past their prime, awake for over thirty hours straight. The stink of cheap whiskey, cigar, and unwashed male was enough to make even Castiel wrinkle his nose in distaste.

The dealer smirked, "Can I help you, gentlemen?" His hand disappeared beneath the table.

A small blade embedded itself into the dealer's arm where the elbow joint gave way to muscle forearm. "I would not appreciate spending the remainder of my day cleaning up the mess if you forced me to kill you," Castiel told the man, pulling another balanced blade into view. His offhand handled his gun with ease.

The man, grimacing with the movement, withdrew his empty hand and laid both of them in easy sight on the table. "Easy now. You got a problem, take it up with Luciano," he warned. Luciano, scrawny guido upstart. His swift rise to power in the Italian cartel had been mainly due to his uncanny ability to make just about anyone in his path dead, no matter how safe they thought they were. This same man was threatening his business, threatening him. So far the body count was mostly within his own organization and, despite appearances, Castiel was positive that was going to change very quickly. The streets were thick with blood. Luciano was running out of targets.

"I intend to," he said simply. He walked around the table until he reached the metal cash box. It contained nearly two hundred thousand dollars, judging by the thickness of the stacks of hundred dollar bills. He closed the lid and took it with him. "This establishment is within my territory and under my protection," he informed them. "You chose to hold your game here. You chose not to ask for my permission or offer tribute. That is an insult I can not ignore." He pulled the knife from the dealer's arm, cleaned the blade on the man's sleeve, and retrieved the gun he'd been trying to pull while he was distracted and cursing the additional abuse to already injured flesh. "Be content I have generously decided to leave you alive."

The man gulped, "Yeah, sure." He looked suitably contrite, the bluster gone from his sails.

Castiel pocketed his gun and opened the door to leave. "The next mistake will be dealt with accordingly," he warned. He'd make it a massacre for the history books if that was necessary to get his point across. He was known for playing the long game and up until six months ago he'd played it better than anyone else. Someone else was always slower to react, less resourceful, foolishly impulsive. Perhaps it would be prudent to change up his style from here on out. His old ways were no longer entirely viable, too predictable. He needed to do something ill-advised and extemporaneous, impulsive. Something he wouldn't expect until it was too late.

Their pockets weighed down with Italian weaponry, Castiel gave the signal to leave. The bartender waved to him on the way out. It all went to shit very quickly. As soon as the first man appeared in the doorway someone opened fire. The kid couldn't be more than twenty-five years old, baby fat still clinging to his face, and Castiel didn't even know his name, couldn't recall asking for it as he watched his subordinate crumple to the ground. It was pure dumb luck. That should have been Castiel. At the last moment the kid had stepped in front of him, taking point. He would have been dealt, chastised for the assumption that he could presume to put himself before his boss, could walk in front of him. There would be no opportunity, though, for the conversation, or maybe even a cuff to the face for his impudence. The main bulk of his body intercepted the bullets meant for Castiel, stopped the lead in their tracks. He was a gasping heap in the doorway, blood bubbling out of his mouth. Kid was done for, the spreading pool of blood around him was nearly black in color. At least one of the bullets had hit the spleen and he'd bleed out fast, long before any help could arrive. He would be pushing up daisies in no time.

Castiel dove to the side, gun out and shooting. He downed at least one while he fell, right between the eyes. He saw the surprised expression on the shooter's face as he slumped. There were four left now, and several were already bleeding from minor wounds. He risked a glance and ducked back as another hail of bullets tore through the window, shattering the glass. He waited for a pause, squeezed off two shots. Two more down. Two left to go.

Someone cursed in Gaelic, but the accent was wrong.

The other kid, sidekick number two, got a lucky shot just before a bullet tore through his neck.

With all of his buddies dead the last man tossed his gun in their direction, shoved his hands into the air, and yelled, "Don't shoot. You win, man."

Castiel narrowed his eyes, took aim, and took him out. One in the heart and one right between the eyes.

Uri leaned out to scan the area. "Nice one," he remarked. "Is it over?" He stuck his head out a little further, gun clutched in both hands like a prayer.

Castiel stood, stepping over the bodies of his own men to reach those of the men that had tried to take his life. Uri was elated, his glee oozing out of every bouncing step he made, but Castiel just felt puzzlement. Their attackers' aim had been uncharacteristically shitty, missing four out of five shots. The bar had suffered the bulk of the damage even when his man had been standing tall, a perfect target. His death had been a lucky shot, one hit in a spray of bullets. Something was off. He yanked the wallet from the pocket of the first corpse he found and didn't like what he saw. He cursed, "Schas po ebalu poluchish, suka, blyad!" It made much more sense now, the pieces clicking into place with nauseating clarity.

Uri chortled, "Head shot! Fuckin' awesome!" He peered over Castiel's shoulder, but didn't get a look at the name of the dead man before he flipped the wallet closed and stuffed the entire thing into his jacket pocket.

"Zatk`nis," Castiel snapped. He spat bloody onto the sidewalk, his face a mask of thinly veiled rage. He grabbed Uri by the collar, dragging him close. "Go to the Irish. Tell them I am in need of Cain's services," he growled.

Uri stuttered, "B-but, boss. The Westies."

"Will at least consider my request. I had an arrangement with their former leader," he cut in and released his second, pushing the man towards the parking lot. "Go, I will be fine." Castiel watched the man drive onto the road in a hurry, just in time to escape notice by the cops barreling in. It was way too soon. Someone must have tipped them off. Castiel turned and ran for cover, hoping he'd be fast enough to get out of the area as well before he was found.

Castiel endured two days of tense waiting while he consolidated his loyalties, rallying those he could trust around his interests. His territory was battened down tight. Two days of wondering if Uri had made it to West Manhattan. Late into the second day he got a call.

"Your boy here tells me you plan to make a move on The Westies. Is that true," a gruff voice asked before he could issue a greeting.

"If you believed him, I do not think we would be talking," he replied.

The other man chuckled, "You got that right. This blacker than black dude comes strolling into Hell's Kitchen claiming he knows something I've just got to hear and then he starts spouting this trash about the Krushnic Bratva looking to take me down. And I said to myself, that just doesn't sound like the Cas I've heard about."

"Cas," he asked, puzzled.

There was another chuckle, "Short for Cas-ti-el."

"Cas," he repeated and decided that no insult was intended by its use. "Cas is acceptable. However, you have me at a disadvantage. Who might you be?"

"Dean Winchester. My father told me all about you," he said.

"Dean," he said, rolling the word on his tongue. It had a nice sound to it. "So you are Dean, son of John Winchester. He was a hard but honorable man. I regret being unable to attend his funeral," he offered. Dean did not respond, even though he left plenty of time to do so. Castiel filled the silence. "I have not spoken to Uri lately. When you return him, I will learn why he has betrayed me with his lies," he explained.

"No can do, Cas. He crossed The Westies too. Right to my face. Come to Hell's Kitchen. I'll spread the word. No one will touch you. We can talk it out when you get here," Dean said.

Castiel grabbed the keys to his Lincoln and every weapon he could carry, "Tell me where to go."

There was a smile in his voice. "Knew you'd see it my way," he said and started rattling off directions.

Castiel arrived with three of his best at his back. The address Dean gave him was an apartment building in dire need of repair. His men bristled, squared their shoulders and tried to look tough as they ventured ever further into what felt like the heart of Westie territory. The Irish and the Russians hadn't clashed in some time, but it still felt wrong to let down their guard. He left them at the top of the stairs as he descended into the basement, his steps guided by a single bulb burning bright from the room beyond. Whatever waited for him in the room beyond, he had a feeling Winchester could be trusted to keep his word. Castiel was safe today.

"Castiel," Dean called, his voice echoing off the concrete all around them. "Glad you could make it."

Dean looked to be about his height until Castiel drew nearer and he found himself looking up a few inches to meet stunning green eyes. He cocked his head to the side, wondering why the man didn't just call him Cas like he had on the phone. For a second he was mesmerized, staring. Then Dean cleared his throat and the moment broke. "You have already talked to Uri," he remarked, seeing the telltale signs of a difficult conversation on the man. His second was tied to a chair in the middle of the room, looking worse for the wear.

Dean shrugged. "Can't expect something like this to jump into my lap and not take him for a test drive," he replied, hand flicking to draw his attention to the small tray of tools at his disposal. They were crude, meant for minor household repairs, but every single one was flecked with blood.

Castiel had no idea what a test drive meant when referring to a man. He stared at Dean, trying to puzzle something out. Dean was familiar somehow, but he couldn't think of a single instance where John Winchester had been introduced him to his sons. They had both been kept hidden from the public eye and far away from his business associates. "This is how you learned of his duplicity," he stated. "How much did he tell you?" Did he spill all of Castiel's secrets as well?

"He's working for Luciano. Thought you'd want to do the honors yourself," he replied.

Castiel looked at the knife Dean was offering. "There are many ways to obtain information. I do not require a blade," he said.

Dean laughed. "No, man. I thought you'd like to be the one to kill the bastard. He'll answer whatever questions you have," he said confidently. The abject terror in Uri's eyes when he said it meant that it was probably true.

Castiel nodded. "Are you working for Luciano," he asked Uri.

Uri looked at his feet and replied, "Yes."

"What did you hope to gain by your actions," he asked. It wasn't real, not yet. Judging by Uri's condition he had met Cain, the Father of Murder himself, and some men had been known to do just about anything to never cross paths with him again.

"Twenty thousand dollars."

Castiel narrowed his eyes. Bullshit. "Why?"

Uri cringed. "Twenty thousand dollars," he repeated.

"I don't believe you," he said.

Uri shrugged.

"Why did you betray me?" Castiel's was starting to sound a little angry, a subtle growl leaking into his tone.

"You are weak," Uri sneered as he glared up at him. "I know the disgusting things you do when you think no one is watching." The revulsion was thick in his tone as he uttered each and every word.

That was it. There was the reason, and now Castiel believed it. The money had only been a bonus. He nodded once and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the knife Dean offered for the task. It cut through muscle and connective tissue with gratifying ease. Arterial spray let loose in a wide arch, soaking a thick line into his clothing, as Uri's head ripped free from the last bit of skin holding it and crashed to the floor, bouncing twice.

Dean blinked, drops of blood speckling his face and clothing. "What did he mean by that," he asked.

"That is not of your concern," he said and held the knife warily. It was a good blade, despite the slickness his grip hadn't faltered yet. Castiel kept his eyes on the other boss and walked backwards heading for the general direction of the stairs.

Dean held his hands out in the open, unarmed. "What you wear women's clothing or something," he joked.

Castiel waited for the attack. This was it. Deep in Hell's Kitchen, if The Westies decided to take him out there wasn't much he could do to stop them.

"Cause that would be none of my business," he finished. "Luciano's a pain in the ass. Wanna team up?"

"Team up?"

"Yeah, put our heads together," Dean clarified.

Castiel stared at him, trying to figure out what he could mean because there was no way the two of them could literally share a head.

"Join forces? Partner up? Work together to crush the raging asshole," he tried.

"Da. An alliance. That would be acceptable," he agreed.

"So, you still going to try to kill me," Dean remarked, not worried in the least. He even sounded a little interested in the idea.

Castiel looked down at the bloody knife, shrugged, and offered it back to Dean hilt first. "Habit," he explained. "I think now would be a good time to call upon the skills of your Cain."

Dean took the knife, setting it on the tray with the rest of Cain's tools. "Please. If I didn't let him in on this he'd kick my ass from here to Queens," he informed him.

~

3 months ago

"Hmmm. I have such plans for you tonight," his dominant purred.

Castiel's entire body woke up for the man slowly caressing every naked inch of him as he spoke, whispering wicked things. He flexed his toes on the rubberized floor. He was draped face up over a padded bench, hands holding firm to a length of rope looped around each ankle.

"You remember the sounding. Don't you? I want to try that again," he crooned.

Castiel's back arched, pushing his pelvis up into the man's hands as they passed. "I like how you think, sir," he replied. His cock, jumping and begging for attention, wholeheartedly agreed.

He pinched his nipple, hard. "A full sentence. I'm not doing my job," the other man remarked.

Castiel felt the brush of soft rope, then the tickle of a brush over his genitals leaving a clean smelling powder in its wake. "Wha-what are you doing." he asked nervously, shifting on the bench.

His dominant left a chaste kiss on the tip of his cock. "Try something new every day, per'ya," he replied and started winding the rope around Castiel's cock and balls in a way that served as an effective cock ring and chastity device. When he was done he patted the blood thickened length. Castiel startled when he heard the snick of a packet of lube being opened, the clink of thin metal rods. "Relax," the man murmured before the cold wet slip of lube hit his cock head and started sliding down inside.

Castiel whined.

The sound touched just inside his slit, pressing, opening him up. When it finally pushed through with a pop he whined again, high and plaintiff. This one was bigger than he had ever taken before. It had to be. It felt like a tree trunk was being shoved down his urethra and the pleasure pain stretch of it was lighting him up. His dominant massaged one thigh as he let gravity pull the heavy steel deeper. He lifted the rod until it barely remained inside of him, then pushed it back down, making the sound slide even deeper. "This is just the thinnest one," his dominant told him.

Castiel gasped, head thrown back and mouth wide open. There was no support beneath his head. He licked his lips, hoping the man would get the hint. He really wanted something in his mouth right now, and if that something was long and thick and tasted of his dominant he just might find a way to cum despite the rope binding him so thoroughly.

"Not yet," his smooth baritone instructed. The sound withdrew, the stretch fading with every inch of it he lost. "Mmmm, I think you're ready for the next size up," he mused.

"No, sir," he complained, but he didn't really mean it. No didn't really mean no. He could say it all he wanted, safe in the knowledge that until he said the proper word, his chosen word, that the other man wouldn't stop, wouldn't hesitate, wouldn't even give him rest until they both were satisfied. A wider sound pressed inside of him. He groaned, long and low, only stopping to breath when the steel bottomed out. The thing was fucking ribbed on one end and it was rubbing him just right, shifting with every movement he made.

Strong fingers unwound his own from the rope, massaging the cramping from his muscles until the digits were pliant. "I want you to stroke yourself, per'ya," he said. "Keep that sound nice and deep and stroke yourself." He waited until Castiel had gotten the hang of it, humming with the pleasure of it. "Now, open up," he ordered.

Castiel gave him a cheeky, "Yes, sir," and swallowed him down, stuffed on two ends. He didn't have another coherent thought for the rest of the hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Vam nuzhno vypustit' par, boss - You need to let off some steam, boss  
> *da — yes  
> *avtoritet — authority, leader of one of the new commercial oriented mafiya groups  
> *vor — thief, lord of crime, an honorary title denoting a made man  
> *per'ya — feathers  
> *der`mo — shit  
> *Neploho — not bad  
> *mudak — asshole  
> *ublyudok — bastard  
> *trahni menya – fuck me  
> *brodyagi — a criminal caste below vor, leaders-in-training  
> *schas po ebalu poluchish, suka, blyad — now i’ll fucking kill you bitch, motherfucker  
> *zatk`nis — shut up  
> *da — yes
> 
> A rose tattoo means the bearer came of age inside the prison system.
> 
> Genuine safe BDSM play includes mutual consent and prior negotiation. Yada yada yada. I'm sure you've heard all about it from other writers. It also involves a lot of very detailed and sometimes embarrassing talking, but I skipped over those boring parts and headed straight for the action. You are welcome.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel bucked, working to dislodge the other man, to move him even one inch. He was desperately trying to ignore the voice screaming in his head that the body pressed against his back was familiar. "Zhopu porvu margala vikoliu. Get off me," he ordered. His voice cracked on the last word. Weakness.

1 month ago

Luciano hadn't made a move in months. He'd been laying low since his little trick with Uri failed. Instead of driving the two gangs apart it had knitted them together. The enemy of my enemy is my friend sort of shit. The Westies had been content to sit on the sidelines until it had become clear he wouldn't stop with the Krushnics. Now they both were howling for blood. Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war. Only their prey had disappeared, gone deep underground. If this were a movie Castiel would be brooding over a large paper map marked up half to hell. This wasn't a movie, though, and maps had no place in his strategy sessions. Mainly, he was alone with his phone, and constantly talking on said anus perepuganii phone.

"How is it so difficult to locate one individual," he complained rubbing the space between his eyebrows.

The best they had was a hint that he would surface roughly a month from now. That wasn't good enough. It gave the man thirty more days to wreak havoc on his organization, on his power base. Luciano was choking off his income. He was grossing less and less every week and already he had lost a few of his more recently hired package boys to other organizations. Everyone was feeling the pinch, but it was grating on him more disagreeably. The recent alliance with the Irish hadn't helped as much as he had hoped for the day to day activities. Their arrangement currently extended only to putting their mutual pain in the ass six feet under, more of a criminal joint task force than a true alliance. He could live with that, as soon as it actually happened.

The shrill peel of his desk phone broke through his inner ranting.

"Speak," he barked into the receiver.

The chuckle was all gravel, whiskey rough rolling through him. He shivered, dismayed at how easily he had come to enjoy the sound of the Irishman's voice. He should have never gone to that club. He let his one vice sink its claws in deep and now he was finding it difficult to stuff back into the box as he previously had done. Dean was easy on the eyes and his voice, god his voice sounded like liquid sin. "Getting all assertive on me, Cas?"

"Dean," he began. "I assume there is a reason for your call?"

"Straight to business then," he grumbled. "Yeah, got a little party invitation. Wanna be my plus one?"

"I have no desire for frivolity," he answered truthfully.

"C'mon, Cas. Loosen up," he urged, and when he didn't respond Dean continued, "Anyways, I heard about a little pow-wow Luciano's upper management is holding tonight. It sounds like fun. Think you can find out where?"

"I will have the details in one hour," he said and hung up.

Castiel had a chat with a police chief who was more than happy to let him handle the issue than risk losing more officers attempting to apprehend the criminals, in exchange for some green to grease his palms. They would never see the inside of a jail cell. The justice system would never be able to hold onto them that long. At least his way they'd never see anything ever again. He had promised the chief that. They pulled up to the tidy suburban home with three from each boss to back them up, Dean's cocky smile leading the way.

It was a blood bath, plush carpet oozing beneath their shoes. It had gone down like shooting fish in a barrel, but easier. Seven men shooting pool and drinking, spaghetti bubbling away on the little stove in the corner. Not one had managed to get a barrel pointed before he'd been gunned down, little red droplets leaving patterns on the other side. Every surface in the place was tacky with it. They didn't dare touch anything. It was going to be a royal bitch to clean and no one was volunteering for the job.

Sasha, Castiel's new second, emptied his stomach into the trash can by the door and was now dry heaving. "Oh god," he moaned, and retched again.

Castiel was not impressed. "Go home, Sasha," he said. Weakness would not be tolerated, especially not here with the Irish watching their every move like a pack of vultures. It was unnerving.

Dean kicked a prone body. "There's three missing," he groused.

"We could not have expected to get them all at once," he informed him dryly.

"No shit," Dean snarked.

Castiel got right up in his face. "I am not your tool."

Dean made a signal and his men cleared out, the Russians following when Castiel nodded his assent. The catch on the door softly clicked and Dean's entire demeanor changed. As soon as the door closed Castiel's face was pressed into the wall, Dean crowding close. He twisted his arm to keep him pinned and growled into his ear, "Never said you were." Every cell of his body radiated leased power and dominance.

Castiel bucked, working to dislodge the other man, to move him even one inch. He was desperately trying to ignore the voice screaming in his head that the body pressed against his back was familiar. "Zhopu porvu margala vikoliu. Get off me," he ordered. His voice cracked on the last word. Weakness.

"Oh, don't be like that," he crooned and ground a hard line of flesh against him. "That asshole Uri never stood a chance. I already knew about your urges, Cas," Dean informed him in a voice that sent chills down his spine. That voice reminded him of padded leather blindfolds and and soft nylon rope.

Castiel hissed, "What urges?" Dean's hand snaked around to feel his genitals, grip too well-acquainted with his body to deny it any longer. Dean was his sir. "How long until your knife is sticking out of my back," he asked, voice resigned.

"Don't be like that. We've been so good together and this...this is only for me. No one else," he soothed. Soft lips nuzzled, nipping at Castiel's ear. "Do you really want to walk away from me?" He slotted his thigh between Castiel's legs with a barely there pressure that had him pushing back against him seeking more.

Castiel relaxed against the wall, the long line of his body pliant. "When did you find out," he asked as toneless as he could manage, hoping the longing didn't bleed through. His body was doing enough to betray him. He didn't need his voice to reinforce it.

Dean chuckled, "I know all sorts of things. You were born Dmitri. I've known that for years. I used to wonder why you bothered to change it. But, then I got a look at that tattoo on your back. It got me thinking. Wings. Angel wings. Castiel is the angel of Thursday. Powerful dude. You don't seem like someone big on solitude or serenity, though." He opened Castiel's fly with his wandering hand and caressed the wet cloth of his boxers, just over the leaking head. "I didn't really know for certain until I watched you work tonight. Fucking artist."

Castiel blinked, apprehension growing. "What sort of favor do you require to keep this information concealed," he asked, dreading the answer.

He was shocked to hear it. "Nothing," Dean replied.

"Nothing," he repeated, disbelief evident.

"You bet your ass," he snarked, cocksure. "Anytime you wanna do it again, Cas, you let me know." He kissed behind Castiel's ear, soft lips lingering, before he released him entirely and stepped back.

Castiel busied himself righting his clothing, ignoring the throbbing between his legs. He couldn't go back to the club, had to forget everything he'd ever allowed himself to do there, to become.

"I'll be waiting for your call, per'ya," Dean called after him as he left.

"Yeban’ko maloletnee," Castiel muttered.

~

Monday

He waited less than a month before he broke, sweaty palms slipping on the plastic case of his phone as they spoke. He was distracted the rest of the day, itchy and nervous. It was well after dark when he left the sobbing soon to be corpse of Luciano's man hanging in the butcher shop in favor of driving to Dean's building in Hell's Kitchen. He knew The Westies were watching him the whole way in, caught the shine of something up on the rooftops as he passed by. Dean's home was not what he expected judging by the his first look at it from the freight elevator, what he could see around Dean's cocky grin.

"Cas! Knew you couldn't stay away," Dean purred.

Castiel cocked his head. "I was not forced to seek your companionship," he replied, puzzled at the man's choice of words.

"You really are adorable when you get all confused," he mused. He stepped close, searching those blue eyes, "What do you want?"

He was asking. Castiel had expected him to take, to force, but sir was asking. He should have remembered that his complete cooperation had always been a factor. "I want what we had in the club."

Dean licked his lips, his eyes dipping down then back up. He wanted a kiss, but he wouldn't take it yet. "What if I want more," he asked. "What if I want Cas and not the nameless sub I met at Appetite? Can you give me that?"

Castiel kissed him, face tipped up to close the distance. Dean was completely motionless, lips frozen. He pulled back. "You've got me here, sir. Use me," he hissed. It was all he had to give at the moment.

Dean grabbed his upper arms and put some distance between them. "We do this and you are mine," he said, searching his face. Castiel didn't respond, didn't deny. "The room at the end of the hall. Go," he ordered and opened his grip, his voice hard.

Castiel walked down the hallway without another word, shedding his suit coat as he did. The room was much like those they had shared before, padded floor and plenty of versatile furniture. He waited to step on the mats until every inch of his clothing was removed and carefully folded by the door. At this point he was usually blindfolded and waiting for his sir to give him an order. With his sight intact he was at a loss as to how to proceed. He searched the array of items on the table and found nothing that could sufficiently blind him, though there were many implements laid out. The sheer variety was daunting, many of which he had yet to experience. His hands shook as he touched the humbler, a device he had only worn once and hated despite the fact that he'd cum untouched as soon as he'd been freed from it, and his knees went weak when he spied the sheer size of the largest of the vibrators. He estimated its girth to be bigger than anything he had ever taken. It both terrified and excited him.

When he got to the end of the collection he found an envelope. The stationary had the same weight and appearance of the ones that had greeted him each night at the club, the same elegant handwriting on the front. Dean must have anticipated his curiosity. He opened it without hesitation and his apprehensions settled when he read the concise instructions within, leaving no room for interpretation. It was exactly what he needed. He took a deep breath and looked again at every toy on display. He cataloged each one and came to terms with the fact that each and every one could very well be included on the play tonight. The only control he would be permitted was the ability to end it completely, no half measure, no take backs. His dominant, his Dean, would assume the burden of everything else. He read the note again, confirming his original interpretation and picked up the slim prostate massager he had seen over by the other vibrators. It was the one toy he chose to set aside, the one he would discard for the evening if he could, the envelope placed beneath it. The massager had many uses, some were very enjoyable, but he didn't want to chance getting his prostate milked, not while he was off balance and relearning how to be with his dominant. It was a very intense experience, all the torture with none of the pleasure.

Castiel was sitting on his heels in the center of the room, knees wide apart and wrists crossed at his back, wondering what the hell he was doing, when Dean made an appearance. He was jittery. Without the blindfold he couldn't hide, would be forced to watch himself in those floor to ceiling mirrors submit like a bliad. Just the thought of watching Dean take him apart, finally seeing the man work when previously he had been limited to touch and sound, sent shivers of arousal through him. He moaned low, biting off the noise in case the man wanted him silent.

Dean initially ignored his sub, eyes only for the table. He hummed, favoring a few with a more thorough perusal than others. Castiel heard him pick up several that did not get returned to their place on the table. Dean grinned savagely with anticipation. His boy was going to be stunning. He circled Cas with a critical eye, nudging him here and there, adjusting his form to his liking. When Dean was satisfied he stepped back. "You will respond to Cas," he said. "And Cas, you will decide how you cum tonight."

Cas perked up, back straightening till his spine was ramrod from sacrum to atlas, chest out. He got an indescribably warm feeling at hearing his nickname growled in Dean's sir voice. He dropped his eyes to the rough work boots, overwhelmed, hoping it was an open-ended offer and not a loaded multiple choice trap.

"Eyes up," he ordered. He only continued when Cas obeyed,

"You have a choice to make." The confusion on Cas' face was priceless. He smirked. "If you choose you may cum whenever you want. But, then you will wear a chastity cage and the session continues until I am satisfied. I might even add the stem." Dean searched his face, looking for something as he shuddered on his knees. Until Dean he had no idea just how many nerve endings could be found inside of his dick and the man could play them like a symphony when he wanted to. "Or, you can tough it out and wait until the end of the night. I'll leave the cage off," he offered. "But, you will wear this," he said and held up the ball stretcher, a simple wide ring that would circle the top of his scrotal sack, holding his testicles well away from the shaft of his penis, "until I choose to let you cum." It was solid surgical steel and looked hefty, heavier than the only one he had ever worn. This model also featured a thin band of metal to segregate each testicle to either side. Oh god, he really wanted to give that a try.

Cas bit his lip, uncertain. He really wanted to cum, but he really didn't want to wear the cage. Yet, Dean's offer promised a new experience, one that most likely would deny him orgasm no matter what Dean subjected him to, meaning he obviously wanted Cas to pick the second option. That meant he had plans and he knew from experience that Dean's plans were never boring. How long would he have waited to use it if Castiel had not come tonight? He nodded at the ball stretcher.

"You may speak," Dean said, and he meant it. A choice was truly a choice, no recriminations if he picked the wrong one because there was no wrong one. "We are in my home and I want to hear you."

Cas croaked something intelligible, cleared his throat, and finally said, "I want to cum at the end."

"And you'll agree to the ball stretcher," Dean asked.

"Yes, Dean," he replied, clearly annoyed at having to repeat himself.

"Very well, " he said, showing no outward indication that Cas had made the correct choice. "On your knees. Hands behind your head. Chest out," he barked.

That was sir's voice and it commanded Cas so easily, sending him scrambling to obey. Knowing the true identity of his sir and having the man, a rival boss no less, command his obedience were two entirely different things. The reality was addling, leaving him off balance and struggling while he reconciled his Appetite sir with Dean, Irish criminal powerrhouse and, up until recently, one of his most resilient rivals.

Dean lightly kicked at the insides of his knees until he felt the distance was sufficient. "I taught you how to kneel on the first day, per'ya. Perhaps this will help you settle," he murmured. Then he held Cas' testicles and slowly stretched them down until there was room to fit the ring, latching it closed.

The thick band was curious but not uncomfortable. Cas whimpered, It felt like a really good hamstring stretch. His member grew, becoming fully hard almost instantly. He humped his hips in the air a couple times, creating little shockwaves as the stretcher swayed. "Sooksin, that feels good," Cas breathed through the arousal, thinking of rotting bodies and naked grannies, anything to keep from cumming.

Dean was not oblivious. "Settle down," he ordered, "Trust me." His voice was gentle but his hands were firm, offering little pleasure as he handled his genitals clinically. He probed the slit with the tip of his finger, stretching the small opening. He looked up sharply when Cas sucked in a breath, finger still relentlessly pushing inside. Dean narrowed his eyes. "You still in?"

Cas knelt perfectly still despite the tremors in his limbs. He met his questioning gaze levelly, "Yes." I'm yours.

Dean held his gaze and produced two items from his pocket. One was the tube of sterile medical grade lube and the other was his glans ring with attached urethral plug, the one sir had purchased just for him. He held them up so Cas could clearly see them, could prepare himself. He wasn't asking permission. This was happening and there was only one way to stop it. Cas had never used his safe word. He pressed his lips together. He'd worn the plug before. It was long but flexible, nothing he couldn't handle, though it had felt like it was splitting him in two the first time Dean had used it. He wasn't going to wuss out now, not even when Dean fitted the narrow nozzle of the tube into his piss slit and squeezed a generous amount of lube inside. He squirmed, not liking the strange feeling, like he had to piss. The sensation got better, or was pushed aside when he had something else, more intense to drown it out. Cas breathed out slow when the plug was inserted, its width at the edge of his tolerance, and was grateful for the extra slick easing the way. Every neuron left in his brain was focused on the throbbing burn coming from inside his penis. His limbs threatened to collapse, but he didn't lose his form.

Dean kissed the skin of his hip and it was all worth it when he praised, "Good boy."

Cas gasped, moaned, "Dean."

The next decoration Dean added to his body were a set of nipple clamps he hadn't tried before. His previous set had not been weighted as these were and the clamp had been curved, a beginners set. Apparently, he had graduated because the ones Dean were holding up for him to see had a straight clamp and small weights dangling from the bottom. Cas didn't have anything in the chest department. Duh, guy. But, with a little pinching and pulling he could gather enough flesh for a good grip. He damn well knew that every painful tug and pull shot straight down between Cas' legs too. What's worse, he discovered that the damned things needed to be tightened after his flesh had adjusted so they wouldn't slip off. He did not fucking whimper in pain when that happened. Nope. And he did not feel his balls get even more painfully drawn against the stretcher either. He gritted his teeth and waited for the pain to bleed into pleasure. Just a little longer. Just a little more. More.

"Cas, status," Dean demanded.

Cas blinked, hissed when Dean tugged on the clamps, and replied, "Green, sir."

"Call me Dean," he murmured and patted Cas' straining length.

"Yes, Dean," he gasped out.

Dean hummed, pleased with his reaction. "Make noise for me, Cas. Don't make me remind you again." The last item Dean had hidden on his person was a butt plug. It wasn't especially large, not even close to Dean's own width. The problem was it vibrated. He knew that because his dom set the remote by his knee after he showed it to him. "Let's get started," he said and patted Cas on the butt, "Bend over."

Cas obeyed eagerly, looking forward to the pleasure pain of it. Dean was planning to edge him, would bring him right to the brink of cumming time and time again, denying his release with a quick tug on his balls or a tight squeeze at the base of his cock. He always seemed to know when Cas was getting close and it was going to be Hell until he'd be allowed his release. Sweet, burning Inferno. He couldn't wait. "Don't you go easy on me now," he urged.

Dean smacked him on one cheek, rocking him forward just a bit. "Pushy sub. Soon as I stretch you. You tear and we'll both regret it," he told him. He was thorough as he got him ready, loose enough to take two fingers, before he slicked up the toy and slid it home. His muscles protested, but parted for the steady push until it was seated fully, contracting around the narrow neck of the device. It wasn't going anywhere. Cas expected him to turn it on immediately, but instead he petted Cas' hair and urged him to straighten, one finger tapping beneath his chin. The plug shifted as he moved. "Do you have any idea how good you look right now? All dressed up pretty just for me. Maybe I should plug up that last hole. What do you think?"

Cas licked his lips. "Please, Dean. Let me suck your cock," he pleaded, fully immersed in subspace. He'd want to bash a few heads in later just to reassert his masculinity. Just thinking of how shameless he was acting, genitals trussed up and begging for more, would be uncomfortable. Like he was two different people.

Dean stepped close and said, "Later," teeth leaving marks along his collarbone.

Castiel watched as Dean peeled off his clothes, cloth brushing against his bare skin the man stood so close, slowly revealing lightly freckled skin covering the sculpted muscles of a soldier, a man used to the front lines. The scars littering his body told him, more than anything else, Dean would never be content chained to a desk while others carried out the dirty work. He moved like a man born to the streets, every action fluid and deliberate. When Dean turned back to face him he couldn't help but trace the crossed pistols tattoo on his upper arm, wanting to touch. "Beautiful," he breathed reverently.

Dean didn't miss a beat. He caught where Cas was looking. "Guns and roses, Cas. No one else can have you," he announced like it was a forgone conclusion and kicked his boxers to the wall.

"No, sir," he agreed easily. No one else would do.

"Remember that." Dean circled him, prowling, cock slapping his belly. "So pretty," he growled, lust bringing the savagery bleeding back into him, this fierce killer his life made of him peeking through the all-American facade. Dean hauled Cas in by the throat, squeezing, claiming a kiss from those chapped lips. He ate at the other man's mouth, plundering. Cas whined pitifully, earning him a sharp slap to his ass, his fingers hitting the end of the anal plug and making him yelp. "Lie down, first position," he barked.

Cas' nerves were waking up slowly, he just needed a little sharper push to really feel it. "Whatever you want, sir," he offered and laid down on the low bench. It was just wide enough to fit his limbs with them tucked at his sides and brought him a few inches off the ground, feet a little higher than his head. Oh, the possibilities.

"Open your mouth. I'm going to feed you my balls. You are permitted to lick them only. Your mouth is the only part of your body you may move. If it gets to be too much, you will safe word out and the scene will end," he instructed. He didn't wait. As soon as Cas opened his mouth, Dean's knees landed on either side of his head. He widened his legs until his balls rested just inside the barrier of Cas' lips. Cas remained perfectly still, breathing through his nose, until Dean said, "Lick." His head tipped back on a deep groan when Cas obeyed, talented tongue doing utterly wicked things to his scrotum.

Cas lathed the soft wrinkled skin with long strokes of his flattened tongue, tracing the seam, wishing he'd been given permission to do more. He liked putting warm bits of Dean's body on his mouth, loved the little sounds he could pull from him. His limbs were pliant as Dean rearranged him, knees bent, feet flat on the floor and out to the sides wide enough to fit the other man's shoulders.

Dean lowered his pelvis even further. Cas could open his mouth impressively wide and he had no trouble enclosing the entirety of his scrotum in the warm, wet cavern of his mouth. He concentrated on moving his tongue and keeping his teeth out of the way. A lick the length of his cock made Cas yelp, breathing frantically through his nose. Oh god. The vibrations had skittered along his sack and up his spine.

Dean chuckled, "Knew you'd be sensitive." He could spend hour enjoying the plaintiff whimpers and warm puffs of air escaping around his flesh.

Cas' chest heaved, fighting not to move even as his tongue continued, on autopilot. He wasn't getting enough air. Every sensation ratcheted up, his awareness of every minute touch, the barest puff of breath on his skin, climbing through the roof. Oh yeah, right there.

He knew Cas was so close, watched his cock jerk around and valiantly seek the friction it was not going to get. Not yet. Confident that completion would be denied by the grip of the ball stretcher, he teased Cas even further on the edge with lips and teeth and tongue. He took the end of the urethral plug in his teeth and shook it side to side like a dog with a bone, letting out a little growl for added stimulation. His fingers danced lightly up and down the shaft while he closed his mouth around the mushroom head and sucked just once, never long enough to really do anything. He had to put his forearm across his hips to keep him still for that one, while the man underneath him squealed in frustration. "What I want, when I want it," he reminded him, petting his inner thigh. He waited until Cas was relaxed again, focused on his task, to activate the vibrating butt plug. It buzzed to life on its lowest setting, with no small bit of evil glee on his part. The plug was both way too narrow and far too short to reach that sweet P spot deep inside. He wanted the man beneath him completely wrecked, teasing never directly on point, oversensitive and begging before Dean would give him some proper stimulation.

Cas' hips twitched, writhing to get the tip of the vibrator deeper, where he needed it, even though it would do him no good if he succeeded. He moaned, words caught at the back of his throat morphing into a high-pitched whine when Dean started jacking him, hand sliding along him from tip to root, twisting on the head. Sex god, he thought as he locked his muscles in a desperate attempt not to thrust up into his grip.

With a sigh, Dean lifted his hips, allowing Cas to freely move his mouth. His voice was a low grunt as he punched out, "Make me cum, Cas. Just like this." He sucked the head of Cas' cock into his mouth, worrying at the plug with his tongue, and then released it with a pop. Cas hips bucked ever so slightly, and he turned up the vibrations in retaliation, making Cas shiver rhythmically to the kitten licks he was delivering to the tender throbbing flesh. It was more pain than pleasure. "Doing so good," he crooned. He ratcheted up the vibrations every few minutes, alternating his attentions until Cas could no longer hold back the subtle quivering in every muscle of his body and the steady low moans of wantneedmore.

If the vibrations were constant or if he could somehow predict where Dean's touch would next land he could handle it better, not be so overwhelmed overcome, submerged in pure sensation. He wasn't sure he could actually form the words to beg even if his mouth wasn't currently occupied. He needed some way to release the pressure, though, and with his two favorite methods unavailable he started sobbing. It was like a popped balloon, could almost feel the change in his inner ears. Tears were running down his temples onto the padded floor, each one washing the pent up strain out of him. Absently, as if it was happening to someone else, he could feel the orgasm building, one that he knew he wouldn't realize, wouldn't make it through the grip of the ball stretcher, just like the last several aborted attempts his body had made since Dean had begun playing his senses like a Fender Stratocaster, finely tuned. It was too much. Not enough. Hovering on a knife edge and every cell of his body screaming to make the jump.

Dean bit hard on the trembling meat of Cas' thigh, leaving deep impressions of his teeth. Almost there. "C'mon, per'ya," he urged and nuzzled the purpling flesh thick and heavy between his legs.

The small pain set to send him over the edge again and the ball stretcher yanked him back mercilessly, remorselessly. Cas wailed, tongue dancing along Dean's scrotum, sucking one into his mouth every once in a while for special attention. The vibrator was on as high as it would go, his hips twitching to pulsing beat of it. He probably didn't even realize he was doing it, or that he had started humming, his mind lost deep in the place between… between. His own arousal had been shoved into the back of his awareness even though he was still thrumming with need, but he had zoned out and the world was reduced to pure sensation, pleasure and pain.

Cas was being so good. His throbbing cock was leaping with every swipe of Dean's tongue. His humming was punctuated by hiccuping mewls of pain, but he never stopped working at Dean's flesh in his mouth. "Let me hear it, Cas," he growled. Cas' cries were music to his ears, and he viciously striped up and down his length, tonguing the slit mercilessly just to feel more of them. The skin of his palm was not quite wet enough for the glide, which made it perfect for the little pain slut stretched out beneath him. Cas got louder, head tipping back. He heard something in Russian which didn't need translatin. He knew the timbre of someone cursing his very existence, whether or not he knew the words being used. Dean himself go, his spend painting Cas' inked skin as he tipped his head back and groaned loudly, a deep bass rumble echoing in the room. That had been just as awesome as he had dreamed.

Cas let out his most pathetic whine yet when Dean sat up. He was still hard, still needed to come so badly he had lost all reason. "Deeeaaan." He writhed on the bench.

Dean slapped the inside of Cas' thigh, the sound like a gunshot in the small room. "Keep licking," he barked and landed several more punishing slaps directly onto every inch of his pale inner thighs flesh just to feel his cries with every blow, high thighs bunching. If it was even possible he watched Cas' erection gained a little in size and deepen in color, drooling like a gigolo at a nunnery. It was such a pretty sight he enjoyed his current position a little longer, letting the last of his aftershocks tremor through him. The man's mouth was made for this, a born natural. His tongue was like a really good testicle massage. He wasn't a complete bastard, though. He thumbed the vibrator to its lowest setting and climbed off of his face as soon as he was sure his legs could hold him.

Cas was a wreck. The lower half of his face was covered with spit and his torso was dotted with semen. He was adorable, big blue eyes blown wide and looking panicked. "Dean, let me cum. Let me cum, Please let me cum, sir," he begged frantically.

"Easy," he said. He gently ran the tip of his finger over the veiny skin, up and up until he was releasing the latch on the ball stretcher. "Not yet," he said. He smoothed his palm over his straining dick and he felt more than heard the sigh of relief when he pulled the plug and ring assembly off of him, nice and slow. "Almost there, per'ya," he soothed. He pumped gently once, twice, and then started striping him for real at a fast and steady pace. "Cum, Cas," he snarled as he grasped one swollen testicle between his fingers and pressed. Two things happened at once. Cas screamed like he'd just been stuck with a rusty blade and his orgasm hit. His back bowed, hips levitating a good foot off the bench, while ropes of white shot out of his cock, mingling with Dean's own and painting his skin as far up as his eyebrows.

Dean worked him through it with the regular up and down of his fist around Cas' shaft, drawing the pleasure out until he was a boneless mess on the bench. This right here was his second favorite look on his sub. The first being armed to the teeth and owning every inch of his status as Pakhan of the Krushnic Bratva.

Cas licked his lips, eyes glassy. He was shaking, sweat beading on his forehead. It wouldn't be long before he was slipping towards subdrop.

Dean gathered him up and headed for the bedroom, the other man light in his arms. As cruel as he could seem in the middle of a scene he never skimped on the aftercare. Bottle of water. Lavender bubble bath. Soft cotton sheets. It was all about quiet and calm and the reassuring care that Dean relishes in providing for his sub just as much as the hours leading up to it.

Clean and warm, Cas lay back in the fluffy mound of blankets and pillows barely able to summon the will to move his arms to hold the bottle of water his dom was pressing to his lips. He grumbled when the water was followed by an energy bar, and additional sips of cool sweet water between bites. Dean murmured to him, mostly nonsense, and the baritone rumble of his voice had him relenting easily, chewing and swallowing with his eyes closed and only half aware. He wasn't able to actually be of any use for what felt like hours. Still too fucked out to speak.

Dean nuzzled at crown of his head, feathery hair tickling his nose. They'd been cuddling for some time now, quiescent in the hush. "How you doing, Cas," he asked softly, gathering the other man closer.

Cas gave a thumbs up, hand quickly returning to its splayed position on Dean's warm pectoral. He was feeling much better, hadn't felt this good in weeks. He wedged one leg firmly between the strong bowed legs beneath him and fell asleep wrapped in the other man's arms, a little smile curving his lips.

Adorable.

~

Tuesday

Castiel's mind wouldn't rest. His asshole ached too much to sit down for long periods of time, forcing his body into near constant motion. On a better day he would have reveled in every little reminder of the previous night's frivolities. He'd suppressed a dozen hard-ons since breakfast, rigid flesh tenting the front of his slacks until he managed to think about something else for a while, something decidedly insipid or revolting enough to counteract the images flooding his recent memory. It was a nuisance he'd rather not deal with considering his current company. Previously his affairs were well-paid or obtained from Petrov's stable for the night and thus there had been no need to conceal his activities. He was not strictly happy with the idea of owning another human being, but he valued the minimal complications such arrangements provided, and many benefits. It was convenient. A pretty piece of eye candy on his arm. A warm hole for him to use. For the longest time that was all he wanted. Dean was confusing him, making him feel things, and he couldn't just come out and announce his latest choice of bed partners. It was one of his many reasons that last night couldn't happen again. But, even as the thought formed in his mind he knew that it would. He was one of the most powerful Russian bosses on the East Coast, but he wasn't strong enough to deny his attraction to Dean, his addiction to the man. The moment Dean beckoned him he would be crawling back, tail between his legs and groveling.

"You ready to go, boss," Sasha asked from his right elbow. He was a bit young for the job, but he'd been raised in vorovskoi mir and he knew the score. With a little instruction he would do well. Right now, though, the expression on his face called to mind that of a devoted puppy, or maybe a poodle.

"I have a task for you," he said rather than reply.

The man's enthusiasm dimmed just a little and he quickly replied, "Yes, boss." Yes, his future looked propitious. He had some of the instincts and the rest could be developed with time. That is if Sasha survived long enough to do so. His second listened as Castiel told him about a Luciano's man in ICU that he needed Sasha to acquire, not eliminate. He stressed that point specifically. The entire exercise would prove futile if their package failed to arrive in a condition sufficient for interrogation. That was vital. He needed information, badly.

Hours later Castiel's face was grim. He'd gotten everything he needed to know and more. He hadn't even needed the threat of Cain to do it. Luciano had really shot himself in the foot with this one, beaten one of his men so thoroughly that he'd onto that edge between dead and not dead, but had not confirmed that the man was in fact actually dead. Michael, as the man claimed he was named, had not appreciated being left for dead. He'd called it inconsiderate and brutish, just plain rude. All that had been required of Castiel was his solemn promise that the poor durak would receive a swift death and he'd sung. Little broken canary. Luciano had become sloppy in his overblown arrogance, convinced of his own superiority. Now all he needed to do was confirm it.

Castiel hit the speed dial for his favorite cleaner and left them to it. He'd promised a quick death, not a painless one. It had gotten a bit messy at the end and he had work to do.

Later that day he barged into Dean's office with the word, "Thursday."

"Tell me how you really feel," Dean responded dryly as his people filed out and closed the door.

Castiel squinted, like he was trying to see some hint of his meaning in the air around him. "Luciano will be accessible. I will need Cain in attendance," he stated.

Dean scoffed, "Have the Vor suddenly moved to Ireland, Cas? Cause I seem to remember saying something along the lines of, Cain answers to me."

"Do you want Luciano dead or not, Dean," he asked, his voice sharp. "I do not have time for your petty posturing. I certainly do not see the need for it." He expected a fight for that one, a fist to the jaw in the least. He wanted it.

Dean's eyes got hard, chiseled emerald, but he didn't move. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

"I need Cain there," he tried, thinking that his meaning had not been clear. "It won't work without," he started and Dean cut him off with a quick movement of his hand that had him falling silent, his mouth closing with a click. Castiel cocked his head and waited, cobalt blue eyes studying him.

Dean walked around the massive desk that dominated the room and he grabbed Castiel by the back of the neck when he got within arm's reach, hauling him in, lips locking. He was firm and fierce, demanding the smaller man submit so completely that Castiel whimpered, mouth parted but hesitant. He had begun to return the kiss by the time Dean drew back, sucking in a breath to say, "I am Cain, you infuriating ruszki. Understand?" Green eyes bored into blue.

Castiel nodded.

"Good. I will handle everything," he said and waited until Castiel once again nodded, dumbfounded. Dean grinned and Castiel knew something lewd was going to come out of his mouth next. "Should we fuck now," he said with a leer. Yep, that about sumed up the definition of lewd.

"No," Castiel replied and his eyes widened when Dean advanced.

He backed him up until Castiel's shoulder blades were digging into the wood of the door, nowhere left to go. "Now, Cas, you know that never works," he said. He slipped his fingers under his thin leather belt, teasing. Dean's thumbs brushed the loaded piece at Castiel's side. "You know what you have to say if you really want me to stop," he murmured and nibbled at his jawline, breathing ghosting over his ear and sending subtle shivers down his spine.

Castiel shook his head. He wasn't going to say it, probably never would. He would fall for this man, this flawed and beautiful soul, rough edges and all.

Dean pushed his whole hand inside his pants and Castiel's hips bucked up to meet his touch. Questing fingertips found and rubbed over the leaking head of his erection, spreading the bitter wetness leaking from the tip. He was chubbing up, getting hard just from this pressed closed proximity, Dean invading his space, his life. Dean's hands on his body, teasing and tempting, pulled a moan from his reluctant vocal cords. He scraped his teeth on the soft skin of his neck, just this side of leaving marks. He wanted so badly to leave a claim on him, but he kept his use of teeth delicate. Dean wanted everyone to know just who this powerful being belonged to, his property, and that was dangerous to both of them.

By the time he was released, Castiel was panting, whining. His hands were grasping at the space Dean had just occupied.

"Seven tomorrow," Dean said as he drew back. He needed to regain some control over the situation.

"But," Castiel argued. He didn't understand. He was here. He was horny and Dean was suffering the same affliction. He had felt the rigid length of him through their clothing.

"Tomorrow, Cas," he repeated firmly and sat down behind his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *anus perepuganii — a scared anus  
> *zhopu porvu margala vikoliu — I'll rip your ass and poke out your eyes  
> *yeban’ko maloletnee — adolescent jerk  
> *bliad — bitch  
> *per'ya — feathers  
> *pakhan — chief of band, crime boss  
> *vorovskoi mir — thieves world  
> *durak — fool  
> *sooksin — son of a bitch  
> 


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean hummed above him in approval, angling his hips for better access. He took his time eating. "This is delicious, per'ya. Fucking gourmet," he praised. He traced a fingertip along his cheek, following the line of his cock. "Take such good care of me."

Wednesday

Cas was loose and pliant when Dean settled his body face up in the swing hanging from a trio ceiling hooks, limbs suspended in separate loops to keep them out of the way. They've reached the halfway point, he hopes. Dean had been working on him for what felt like hours. The playroom doesn't have a clock on the wall like the one at Appetite and Cas knew his sense of time was seriously skewed when he got like this. It had taken a lot of effort on Dean's part to get him this docile, not only in the last to hours but it was also a measure of trust built slowly during their previous sessions. The swing, its purpose a form of support, was not easy to dismount without assistance, lending it a small feeling of being restrained, something Cas had not agreed before.

Dean was running a pinwheel, Cas knew from his research that it was actually called a Wartenburg wheel, along the sensitive skin of his bound testicles. They were swollen, incredibly sensitive, and had turned a deep crimson color from all the attention they were receiving.

Cas bit his lip and managed to keep from begging, but he couldn't help the whine deep in his throat. It seemed he was constantly losing his words around the man. It was embarrassing, or would be when he was no longer so thick with lust it might as well be oozing out of his pores. He was feeling wanton tonight.

"Cas," Dean crooned.

Cas shifted.

He shoved two lubed fingers deep inside and brushed them against his prostate, a barely there touch he used to torment the gland. "Cas," he said, voice a little sharper. He'd already taken his time stretching Cas, but he wanted to hear him scream by the end of it. He wanted this man groveling, reduced to nothing more than naked need. He wanted to see those fat tears rolling down his face, and he'd need him focused on his dom, and nowhere else, to obtain it. No finding his happy place when things got a bit too intense.

Cas' big blue eyes popped open, mouth wide and panting. "Dean," he moaned.

Dean backhanded him across the mouth, grabbed his legs, and shoved his cock inside his loosened hole so quickly Cas could only arch up and keen. His yowling was so loud that it threatened to pop his eardrums. "You with me now," he asked, laughing, and tugged on the chain linking the nipple clamps together. He took a moment to admire the glittering gemstone charms dangling from the clamps, as close a match to the otherworldly hue of Cas' eyes as he had been able to manage.

Cas bit his lip and nodded. He couldn't help but revel in finally getting what he's wanted all night. Well, one of the things. "Oh."

Dean dragged in and out with long, punishing strokes, his hips grinding every time he bottomed out. "The only words coming out of your mouth have better be along the lines of please, yes, more. Beg, Cas," he growled and increased the force of his thrusts.

Cas flinched every time Dean's pelvis collided with his bound balls. They had gone past the point of sore and were now a swollen deep red color that were starting to get a little painful at even the slightest touch. It wasn't a loss of circulation. Dean had been checking for that at regular intervals. It was just one more sign of over stimulation and he knew that when he was finally permitted to cum it would hurt almost as much as it would feel oh so phenomenally good. He kept his lips pressed closed, though. He wouldn't beg. Not this time. This had to stop. He wasn't this weak.

Dean stopped moving, stopped touching him. Their only point of contact was the part of him still deep inside of Cas. "You're thinking to much," he told him and Cas had a brief moment to wonder how he could know what was going on with him, like he had a ticker tape on his forehead. "Maybe I need to step it up a bit," he mused and tied a thick black cloth over Cas' eyes. It was the first time since they'd stopped going to Appetite that Cas had been blindfolded.

His breath caught at the soft touch of fingers, a slow glide up and down. The gentle featherlight contact drawing his attention more completely than the rougher treatment of a moment ago. A moan stuttered out of him, thighs drawing taunt with the effort not to thrust up into that hand, toes curling. "Poshyel k chyertu," he moaned.

Dean kept up the slow light stroking and matched the rhythm with his hips, angling just right so that he hit his prostate more often than not. "Somehow I think that was not a nice word," he chuckled. "English, Cas. You can teach me Russian later, when I'm not fucking you."

"Assbutt," Cas nearly screeched, his legs trying to pull the loops holding him from the ceiling. "Fucking fuck me proper," he demanded.

Dean didn't slow down, speed up, or change his motions in any way despite the wriggling of Cas' body. "You know what I want, per'ya," he informed him and then leaned down and growled into his ear, "Beg."

He didn't know how long he'd been aroused, but he couldn't stand it much longer. Couldn't stand it now. "Please," he moaned.

"That's it," he rumbled into the skin at the angle of his jaw, nose brushing his hairline, making him shiver.

Cas sobbed and repeated, "Please please pozhaluysta." He gave in, became a pathetic sobbing mess of need beneath the onslaught that was Dean Winchester.

Dean stilled again, reaching over to the small table just within reach. He hummed, savoring the delicious massage on his cock as Cas squirmed, seeking friction.

Cas thrashed, distraught when he felt the cold slide of lube down his slit. He cried, "No," at the soft touch of Dean's fingers keeping his length upright.

Dean tugged on a nipple clamp and then his fingers were working the knot on the blindfold, removing the cloth from Cas' eyes. "Look at me," he ordered. He lowered the sound when Cas obeyed. "You cum when I say you cum," he said.

Cas wailed. The rope was still holding him back and the sound was bumping against the inside of his prostate while Dean stroked the gland from the other side with the drag of his cock.

Cas squirmed a little when Dean stopped moving, again, keening, until he realized exactly what was happening. Dean was removing the rope, one loop at a time. He almost came right there, when he was finally free and his balls immediately tried to suck up into his pelvis. If it wasn't for Dean's quick intervention he would have, especially when Dean's hips started jackhammering into him, the head of his cock hitting Cas' prostate every few strokes. It got even more difficult when Dean removed the clamps and started massaging his abused nipples, the pain sharp with every pass and leaving a deep ache behind.

"You ready, Cas," Dean grunted between thrusts, fast and hard.

Cas bit his lip, fighting to keep his eyes open, his head tilted so that he could watch the play of muscle beneath Dean's shining skin. He wanted to witness the moment he fell apart inside of him. His own orgasm was building and soon he wouldn't be able to stop it. He forced himself to speak, knowing Dean would take silence as disobedience. "Yes, please. Deeeaan," he begged and he couldn't stop, words spilling out of him while tears made tracks down his face. There were even a few threats sprinkled in between. He was losing his English.

Dean grinned, hand stroking the length of Cas' bouncing cock, thick vein along the side throbbing. Cas tightened around him and, even if he wanted to, under the triple stimulation he was helpless against the next word that came out of Dean's mouth. "Cum," he demanded as he pulled the sound out of the throbbing clasp of his body.

Cas' back bowed, lifting his back a good six inches off the swing, and he screamed as he exploded, sending ropes of white onto his abdomen, chest, face, hair, and the floor beyond.

~

Thursday

Castiel was walking with a noticeable limp. Sasha had been eyeing him for the last hour, trying to figure it out. He'd even gone so far as to ask him outright if he was feeling alright. He missed Uri. The man had been a snake, but he knew his job and up until recently he'd done it well. Castiel hadn't needed to interfere much in the little minutia like he was forced to lately. It was annoying. The current dispute was between two of his patsani, petty squabbling over territory. They were fighting over ublyudok street corners, grimy little pieces of pavement hardly worth his time. Crystal meth was not on even the top ten of his most lucrative ventures anymore. Castiel pinched the skin at the bridge of his nose, thinking.

"Pakhan," the one on his left entreated. He'd been the idiot to start up with this shit.

Castiel made a cutting motion in the air with his hand. The seconds ticked by in complete silence. "Let me get this straight. You, Gleb," he began and the guy actually interrupted him.

"Gabe," he corrected. Castiel just looked at him until he shrank back a bit and squeaked out a, "Prosti menya."

He wasn't even Russian, would never make Vor, but he'd been a useful asset until he'd gotten cocky and arrogant. "No matter," Castiel said and shot the guy in the leg, bullet tearing through the meat of his thigh. He screamed out in shock and collapsed to the floor, holding his bleeding wound like the very act of touching it could keep the hemorrhaging at bay. "You'll survive," he intoned.

The other guy took a step back, holding his hands up in supplication.

He shot that guy in the leg too. He didn't want to be seen playing favorites. "Now, I trust you will seek out more constructive methods to resolve your differences," he said and dismissed them, leaving instructions with Sasha to shuffle the assignments so that those two wouldn't be working so closely again. Meth might not be booming business, but he would not tolerate lost revenue for such inane reasons as whose corner had the better view.

The pause until go time was filled with minor managerial tasks, though he was not called to mediate any more disputes. The next pair waiting had taken off, leaving notice that the issue had been taken care of. He assumed he had gotten his point across. Uri had coddled the shpana far too much and now they had to grow up and wear their big boy pants, man the fuck up and handle their own problems. Two bullet holes tended to get the rumor mill flowing nicely.

Several hours later the only thing he could conclude was that he really should have seen it coming. "What do you want," he asked, a bit tired of the back and forth of the last few months. Besides, now he had a dead body to get rid of. A suka he had lost track of two days ago. He'd keep the blood-stained note that had been pinned to the lapel of the guy's cheap suit. There was a decent print pressed into the blood-soaked paper he was hoping belonged to Luciano, or at the very least one of his Capos. It could be useful.

"Back off. Better yet, ship out, comrade," Luciano gloated over the phone.

Castiel was saying some very not nice things in his head about his wayward man. The idiot had disobeyed orders. He hadn't been the most reliable member of his extended crew and Castiel had been harsh with his reprimands lately. He knew the guy had tried to play Rambo attempting to redeem his reputation. He'd been captured and interrogated instead, his cooling body left on the doormat as a message. Yet another inconvenience plaguing Castiel's day. "I fail to see your logic," he replied.

His phone chimed with an incoming text message. "Check your messages. Your man said some very interesting things about your friend here. I'm sure you want him to keep breathing," Luciano said. "I'm waiting," he sing-songed after a moment.

Castiel was not inclined to indulge the man. Whatever it was, he was guaranteed not to like it, but his curiosity got the better of him. He thumbed over to his messages and accessed the single image file from the unknown number received a moment ago. Dean's tired green eyes blazed out at him from the photo, the blood and bruises on him face doing nothing to diminish the fierce man's presence, even in two dimensions. "I do not comprehend the advantage you hope to gain over the Bratva by detaining one of the Irish," he said, hoping the man didn't notice the catch in his voice.

The man tsked. "Uri provided some very enlightening information. All it took was a little green to grease his palms. You really should pick your associates more carefully, Vor," he informed him. "I never thought Castiel would stoop to be the bitch in a relationship. Not until I saw the pictures. I must say, in other circumstances I'd take a turn at you myself," he boasted.

"Come and try, Luci. I'll rip your wings off and throw the rest to the dogs," he stated, voice rumbling deeper than it ever had before and revealing his displeasure.

Luciano chuckled. "I think I'll just have to settle for the pretty shamrock here. Leave New York now and I won't play with him to much before I kill him. Don't and I'll make sure he's cursing your name before he dies. Think it'll take a while," he spat. "I don't know how much longer I can resist, Castiel. Think about it," he added after a moment.

Castiel couldn't tear his eyes away from the phone screen for a long while after the call ended and it took him a little longer after that to collect his frantic mind, his usually unflappable calm rattled deeply. He couldn't identify when Dean had become so important to him. He only knew that no one would be safe from his wrath should the man fail to survive. His men, when he gathered them at the safe house, were a bit skittish. His recent actions coupled with the rage whirling behind his cobalt eyes had cowed them quickly. He called in half the chips owed him in the city to find Luciano and, by extension, Dean. He took only those men he was sure of, eliminated several he had good reason to suspect had been compromised by the slimy Italian, and armed himself to the teeth on the way out the door. He even called in the few Irish guns he knew Dean trusted implicitly. He had stacked the odds the best he could in their favor. Now he was headed for razborka.

The building Luciano had chosen was typical mob movie-esque. An aging fish packing plant that just plain stank. He almost expected a crazy man in a giant bat costume to jump out of the shadows and kick everyone's asses. What? Do you really think Dean would allow Castiel to remain ignorant of the Dark Knight trilogy? He'd been all, 'Batman, Cas!', and that had been that. The plan had been centered around stealth, for as long as possible, which was shot all to hell when one man managed to sound the alarm before his neck was snapped. By that time Castiel's hand was on the door and he didn't bother with silence after that. Castiel didn't waste the time once he got a good look inside. Three men went down easy, sightless eyes unblinking in the fluorescent lighting, leaving Dean tied to a chair at the center and dripping blood. His chin was resting on his chest, eyes closed, breath slow and steady.

Castiel dropped to his knees in front of him, soaking clotted strips of blood into the fabric of his slacks. He didn't even notice that he was ruining the expensive suit. His attention was fixed on Dean's face as Castiel gently lifted his head, fingers checking and double checking the reassuring beat of his pulse.

Dean took a deep shuddering breath in, eyes fluttering.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel rasped with relief.

Dean coughed, groaned. "Hell, I feel like someone played soccer with my skull," he said and his face scrunched up in this adorable look of discomfort. He opened his eyes, pain shining through them, and was glad to see Castiel crouched in front of him. Best thing he'd seen all day. "Get me out of this, would you?"

Castiel worked at the duct tape on one wrist while Dean started prying the arm on the other side clear off its supports. Both approaches worked at about the same speed and Dean was freed a moment later, cussing and grumbling as he stretched.

"Son of a bitch," he grumped, but his movements were easy and betrayed little of the wounds hidden behind his blood-soaked clothing. He walked over to the corpse of a portly man dressed in a formerly light cream colored suit and kicked the very deceased Luciano in the ribs with enough force to roll him onto his back. Apparently that had hurt, because then he proceeded to limp around for a bit while he released another angry tirade of cussing, his prolific vocabulary of obscenities bouncing around the room. He finished with, "Would have liked to pop him myself," he spat with one final kick.

Castiel understood the sentiment. He waited out Dean's angry tirade, knowing its was mostly bluster and posturing. He expected the man to collapse at any moment, but he could only watch in wonder as he just wouldn't go down. There was a lot of fresh blood in this room, pooled around the chair where Dean had been. He had to be feeling the loss, and he wavered but didn't go down. "My men will handle this. I need to get you to a doctor," he told him and moved to support him under one arm.

Dean shook him off but agreed to the medical. "Lead on, sugar lips," he announced, sounding a bit loopy. Dean remembered how awkward, even shy, the other man had been when they'd first met, and how different he had been when they'd met for real, all calculating boss and no fun. He still thought of the haphazard way the man combed his hair as his sex hair, perpetually freshly fucked. It was smoothed down at the moment, though, and he didn't like it. He reached up to ruffle the man's careful styling. Hmmm. Maybe the blood loss was starting to get to him.

Castiel rolled his eyes, but hauled him out of there anyways. "How did he get to you," he asked as they drove away, Dean laid out in the back seat. It wasn't like him to leave himself open and vulnerable.

"It was Sam," he replied with a note of heartbreak. "Luciano's goons grabbed him outside his econ class. They had his girlfriend." The leather creaked as Dean shifted into a more comfortable position, one leg draped over the back headrest and the other stuffed under the driver's seat. "He told me he was in town and wanted to catch up. I fucking fell for it," he growled vehemently.

~

2 months later

Castiel shoulders loosened the moment he stepped into Dean's flat. He was spending just as much time here as at his own home on Long Island. He'd spent the day hunting down the last traces of Luciano's organization. The cockroaches had scuttled back to their dank little holes and he'd been playing exterminator ever since. It had put him in a perpetually black mood and Dean had been getting the brunt of his frustrations. He really wanted to kill someone tonight, again. The little worm he had dispatched earlier, a sniveling excuse for a man that had just been a little better at hiding than the others, had done little to improve matters. There had been little satisfaction to be found in taking him out. So, tonight he was going to be doing things a little differently. He was taking the night off. Dean's orders.

Castiel dropped his tie on the hook next to the bedroom door and added his suit jacket as well, his movements stiff and harsh. He needed to change, needed to wash the bits out of his hair. He really needed to get into costume and start cooking, because if his dom walked in to a dirty Cas and no dinner he was going to get it. Well, he'd probably not get it and that would be even worse. It had been three weeks, three long infuriating weeks since he'd had an orgasm and he just might throw an honest-to-god temper tantrum if he didn't get one tonight. Either that or his men would be walking on their eggshells even more gingerly for a bit longer. At least, that appeared to be the gist of the conversation he had with Sasha before he came over.

It seemed like no time at all had passed before the elevator doors slid open. Dean was in a fine mood tonight. He could see it in the tense set of his shoulders beneath that expensive tailored suit, Italian wool shifting with the flex of muscle. Cas stood uncertainly, caught with his hand in the cookie jar, halfway between the kitchen and the living room. He's like a deer in the headlights, blue eyes wide, impossibly big. This thing between them seemed to be headed for the long haul, but it was at times like this, his love so fresh from the streets the wet speckles of blood still gleamed on his polished Ferragamos, that he wondered if tonight was it, his end, or Dean's. The elevator door closed softly, the gentle snick of the seal like a thunder clap in the silence. Neither of them had led easy, gentle lives. The thought sent a thrill through him, having lived on the sharp edge for most of his years, even as the panic fear quickened his blood. Old habits had him checking the exits.

He remembered when he got his first good look at Dean, before the elder Winchester had been gunned down. It had only been a glimpse of his profile through a rifle's scope, but the man had reminded him of a panther in his sleek herringbone twill, gray so dark it could have been black in the dim light of the alley. He'd meant to kill him that night, before he could reign in The Westies. It would have plunged them into chaos, easy pickings, but he couldn't do it then and he wouldn't let it happen now. Dean's expression was fierce, the cut of his jaw ticking with his heartbeat and so beautiful he took his breath away, as he stalked forward, the click of his shoes on the tile masked by the roaring of the blood in Cas' ears. He couldn't help it. He backed up until the small of his back met the unyielding edge of the granite counter top, the heels making him a little unsteady on his feet. He stumbled, skirt swishing around his thighs.

Dean caught him, steadied him by a hand on his throat, thumb pressing dangerously close to his pulse. "Hmmm, I wonder what the occasion is, dressed up so pretty for me," he rumbled and his whole body invaded his sub's space. "Did you get to slit some throats today, per'ya? Luciano scum," he asked, searching Cas for a reaction.

"Posadit' na piku," he murmured. His cock gave a feeble twitch inside the cock cage as his lover, his love, pressed close, grinding against the hard metal between his legs just a little. Cas swallowed, epiglottis clicking against the barely there pressure. He opened his mouth to say something else, anything.

Dean squeezed, cutting off Cas' airway just long enough to make him feel it. "I didn't give you permission to speak," he growled and the words died in Cas' throat. Dean's eyes strayed downward, interest sparking, "Just the sight of you like this," he mused and licked a line along the jumping muscle in his neck. "I could take you right now. No prep. Bet you'd love that," he said as he pulled back, his amusement apparent when Cas swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, and nodded.

Cas' hands gripped the counter top, knuckles white. This close he could see the dangerous glint in the other man's eye, the one that told him he could end up covered in semen or blood tonight and he wouldn't know which one until it was all over. Wasn't sure he cared. Cas whined, a low helpless sound that he hated, and pressed up into that hand. He was begging, he knew it, and he couldn't help himself. Dean reduced him to a quivering mess of need just by being in the same room and when he got like this, pulled taut and ravenous, all reason left him. He wanted to demand that hard cock pressed up against him should be inside of him, right now, no waiting. No kindness.

When he didn't try to speak again. Dean gave him one last squeeze, spots eating his vision, and eased off. "Very good, per'ya," he praised.

The words shot straight to Cas' groin. He couldn't help it. The man was distilled sex.

"Is that what you need? Do you need it to hurt tonight," Dean asked. "Replace that blood on your hands with a bit of your own."

He groaned and the sound was swallowed by Dean's mouth on his, more a conquering than a gentle play of tongues. It was rough, teeth clacking until they found an angle that worked, lips sliding together and Dean's tongue spearing into him.

"Tell me why you haven't cum in three weeks," Dean prompted.

Cas looked into his impossibly green eyes and felt shame as he replied, "I came without permission." Dean had been working him hard, hitting all his buttons, pushing at his boundaries, but he'd been in a funk he just hadn't been able to shake. If he'd just held out a few seconds more the order would have come. Just a little longer. They both knew that. He wanted to say that his body had betrayed him, but it would be a lie. He'd simply stopped trying, and instantly regretted it. Dean had assumed as much guilt in the debacle as his sub. He didn't know how Dean had fulfilled his own punishment, but he did know that they both had served their sentence these past three weeks.

He hummed, "Thought I taught you control. Now we're back to square one. Tonight you will focus only on pleasing me and maybe, with time, I can trust you won't disgrace yourself at the slightest touch like a rutting tween."

He pressed him back with a hand on his throat, bending Cas backwards. He's glad he took up Yoga, flexibility allowing his shoulder blades to touch the cool stone as the other man loomed over him. The pressure didn't let up, wouldn't let him breath, his trachea narrowed till he's gasping through a straw. He can feel the silky pleats of his skirt ride up, showing more thigh than he'd be comfortable with at any other time, but with just the two of them it was perfect, utterly decadent, and he relaxed into it lightheaded.

Dean's other hand worked the buttons on his fitted white dress shirt one by one, revealing smooth pale flesh. His skin pebbled when the cool air hit it. "So sensitive," Dean mused, fingers ghosting over his nipples, pausing just long enough to twist one before continuing on. It wasn't enough and he squirmed. "Yeah, you're a little pain slut," he chuckled and moved his hand from his neck to his chest, fingers spread for as much contact on his hot skin as possible. "Love the skirt," he growled into his ear, raw need thick. Schoolgirl slutty was a yes.

For once he's grateful for the cage keeping him soft as he's sucking in as much air as possible. He'd be coming right now if he could, just from this, ruin their clothing and spoil Dean's plans for the evening. As it is, he's writhing with his legs splayed out on either side of Dean. He knew that all he had to do was say one word, one little innocent word, to make it stop. Dean would let him up, no harm no foul, He clamped his lips together, fighting to remain in place, hands still gripping the counter top to ground him, to keep him upright.

Pristine white cotton fluttered at his flanks and Dean completely released him, stepping back. Cas was heaving, struggling to regain himself, taken apart with nothing more than a threat. The only sign that he could find that both of them had participated in the last few minutes was the large bulge behind his zipper. Cas' mouth watered. He looked up into narrowed green eyes, asking for permission, but not waiting for it. Cas sank to his knees, so close he could smell the subtle scent of arousal. Dean rested his hand on the back of his head briefly, telling him it was ok. He licked his lips and reached out to pull his cock free from its confinement, eager to get his mouth on it. Too eager.

Dean roughly slapped his hands away. "You are really asking for it," he hissed. "We'll discuss this later," he added and Cas heard the promise for what it was. They were good for now. Dean spread his blazer open and casually stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Get to work," he demanded, a challenge in his eyes.

Swallowing down his nerves, Cas worked the fastenings of Dean's slacks with his teeth, gently pulling the zipper all the way down. He eagerly buried his face in the open fly to lick at the damp fabric of his boxers, chasing the taste of pre-cum with his tongue. His teeth clicked on the glans ring as he swallowed him down to pull him free from the confines of his clothing, using his lover's flesh as a gag to suppress the needy whimpering trying to bubble out of him. Big tough Bratva bosses did not whimper, especially not with Westie cock stuffed down their throat.

Dean was entirely too observant. "I didn't tell you to be silent. Like a fucking corpse down there," Dean groused and thrust forward once. "Make me feel it," he demanded. Cas was his open book.

Cas' mouth watered at the subtle taste of musk, easing the way, and he moaned like a two dollar whore. He was Pavlov's dog, drooling on command, and he didn't give a shit. He suckled on the tip, lips locked around the glans, before he slid down slowly and then back up. Dean's breathing hitched, signaling he was close, and Cas redoubled his efforts to coax that first orgasm onto his tongue. Dean's hips twitched when he took him all to the way to the hilt, throat convulsing around the mushroom head lodged deep down, ring catching. He sucked in a breath when he pulled back, only to push forward until his nose was buried in wiry blonde curls, his eyes watering and his vision spotty. He repeated this a few more times, working the shaft with his tongue and hollowing his cheeks for suction as Dean slipped in and out of his mouth. So close. He could feel that he was so close.

Dean let slip a long groan just before his erection throbbed particularly hard and the taste of his cum burst bitter into Cas' mouth. "Ahhh. That's it," Dean murmured and bowed his back to get as deep as possible while he emptied all that stress out of the tip of his cock.

It could have been minutes or hours that passed while Cas fought the arousal trying to burst through his metal containment, a small pain almost as welcome as the orgasm would have been. All he knew was that eventually Dean was tucked back into his suit pants and his dom's fingers were petting through the soft nearly black locks on his head. "So good for me," Dean crooned. The change in him was immediate and wondrous. He could be almost tender for the few moments following release. "There is still the matter of your punishment," he warned teasingly and Cas stiffened, "but that can wait for later." He got Cas standing and hands wandered beneath the hem of the skirt to explore the intricate design holding his cock hostage as he said, "You can speak now."

"Dinner is getting cold," he blurted out. Dean's lips descended onto his in response and he opened his mouth eagerly, moaning wantonly.

When he pulled back he had the skirt flipped up. "Just how I like you," he mused as he turned the cage this way and that, admiring the hairless skin on his genitals. "My cock looks pretty, doesn't it?"

"Yes," he flushed.

"Hmmm." He got a good handful of soft naked testicles and squeezed them tight.

"Govno," Cas screamed, high pitched and desperate. He locked his knees to keep from humping the other man's leg like a dog in heat until his dom released him.

"So desperate," Dean crooned, grip loosening and he smoothed the material back into place.

He gathered him close for a moment, pulling the shirt completely from Cas' torso. Cas rested, nose firmly pressed to his dom's skin, and savored the further loosening of his muscles. The worst was over. The calm was settling easier on them both. Dean hushed him when he squirmed, "Shh, I've got you," as his hand traced patterns on the skin of his back, soothing him. "Have you eaten," he asked softly.

Cas nodded against his neck, "Yes, sir."

Dean gave his balls one last fondle and gently turned him around. He pushed him towards the kitchen with a light pat on his butt. "I'll be in the dining room. Wear your kneepads when you bring my dinner," he ordered and left the room.

Juggling a dinner tray while wearing kneepads and balancing on stiletto heeled shoes took some skill, but he managed it. He felt clumsy, nothing like the graceful models that had hung off his arm a time or two, but it was worth it. Dean was already sitting at the table, jacket slung across the back of his chair. The heat in his eyes when he looked up at Cas in this ridiculous outfit made it all worth it.

Dean didn't make him wait. He picked up his utensils and ordered, "Under the table," before he took the first bite.

Cas spread Dean's legs with his shoulders as he settled between them and slurped him down to the base, bristly hairs tickling his nose. He would stay just like that, on his knees with back arched so prettily, while Dean ate.

Dean hummed above him in approval, angling his hips for better access. He took his time eating. "This is delicious, per'ya. Fucking gourmet," he praised. He traced a fingertip along his cheek, following the line of his cock. "Take such good care of me."

He nearly preened and after spending over an hour with his lips wrapped around Dean's delicious length, Cas would have done anything, anything if the man would just ream his ass already. He'd really like a good fuck right about now, though. Yeah. That sounded nice. He wanted the man to get so deep inside of him that he could taste the pre-cum slicking out of him. Needed it. His balls were getting sore, worse with every passing day, and soon he wouldn't be able to stand even the touch of his pants. He was relieved when Dean finally led him to the play room at the far end of the hall.

Dean pulled a few things out of the trunk before explaining a few things. "I barely touched your balls earlier, Cas," he said and scolded, "You should have told me they were hurting. If you promise to be good I'll let you relieve the pressure."

Cas licked his lips, hoping. "I'll be good," he eagerly replied. Then he saw the slim vibrating wand in Dean's hand. Oh no. He struggled not to kneel on his hands and knees on the bench like a dog. He wanted to cum. "Please," he begged. Not that. He sobbed.

Dean grabbed him by the throat, slamming him into the wall. "You can do as I say or I can make you," he warned, rough whiskey growl rumbling.

Cas went limp as Dean pushed him into place, fingers adding new bruises to his hips. He rested his forehead on the cool wood and just breathed, little hiccups left over from his fit. He knew what was coming next. The unrelenting vibrations from the wand on his prostate brought the cum dribbling slowly out of his balls, bringing no wave of endorphins with it. He was left feeling strangely empty and unfulfilled, the physical ache relieved but the yearning for pleasure still thrumming through him. Tears were streaming down his face.

"That's it," Dean crooned. "Almost done," he said. He petted his back while the last drops landed in the small bowl.

Cas' tears dried up, even after his balls were completely empty and the vibrations started to hurt. He bit his lip, limbs trembling, accepting the brief moment of pain before the wand was removed and his dom's approval washed over him.

"So good for me, per'ya," he heard. Dean carried him down the hall and laid him on the bed.

Cas' hands fisted the velvet comforter under his back. Dean was shedding his clothing like they were on fire, revealing every inch of his body in a rush and he drank in the sight. It would never get old. Not when the strip show was followed by Dean crawling onto the bed with him like some big jungle cat. Especially not when he pulled out his switchblade and carved a shallow line of fire on his inner thigh, chasing the blood with his tongue with relish, cat with cream. Warm. Wet. "I love you," he breathed.

Dean grinned, lips smeared red. "I know," he growled and pushed Cas' tattooed knees to his shoulders, stars plastered together, to bury himself deep in the tight heat beneath him.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *poshyel k chyertu — go to hell  
> *pozhaluysta — please  
> *patsani — young lads/warriors who make up criminal gangs  
> *ublyudok — motherfucking  
> *Pakhan — chief of band, crime boss  
> *prosti menya — forgive me  
> *shpana — group of hoodlums  
> *suka — turncoat, scab, traitor; literally means bitch  
> *Vor — thief, lord of crime, an honorary title denoting a made man  
> *razborka — settling of accounts/judgment; often violent  
> *per'ya — feathers  
> *posadit' na piku — to stab to death, cut up with a knife; to literally put on a spike  
> *govno — shit
> 
> Eight pointed stars tattooed on the shoulders stand for Vor v zakone, thief in law. It is the full name of the leader of an old Russian gang. When placed on the knees they stand for a refusal to bow to authority. They can only be worn by a Vor.


End file.
